Fallout: Cyrodiil
by CharNobyl
Summary: Two worlds, spread across time and space, one reliant on technology, the other on magic. But even with the differences, both are equally susceptible to the allure of power. A re-release of a previous story, freshly edited.
1. Trouble in Paradise

The Brotherhood of Steel wasn't the easiest organization to sustain. In fact, it was quite the opposite: high tech requires equally high maintenance. The Brotherhood may have been descended from members of the United States military and some of the best military grade weapons left on Earth, but it didn't change the fact that they had a finite number of resources, and that number was rarely bolstered by salvage, or the discovery of hidden weapon caches.

As fate would have it, finding weapons and ammunition (not to mention food and water that didn't bleach your skin on contact) was becoming harder and harder, made only more so by the near perpetual warfare the Brotherhood found itself in. The eastern sect of the Brotherhood was locked in combat with the totalitarian remains of the US government, under the new pseudonym 'The Enclave' and the western sect still technically embroiled in a devastating war with the New California Republic.

And forget about exterminating the lumbering super mutants who roamed across the country. The Brotherhood had barely the resources to hold them back, much less take the fight to them.

The very lack of resources that had been plaguing the once-mighty paramilitary was what made Brotherhood Knight Matthew Ryan so ecstatic by his newest find, tucked under his left arm as he approached what appeared externally to be a rickety shack. The power-armored soldier flipped open the rusty aluminum panel beside the door, revealing the keypad beneath, and tapped the entry code. He was almost locked out with several mistypes, but succeeded after what felt like an eternity.

The outpost itself was a relatively unassuming structure, already partially hidden from sight by the local geography, and further aided by its isolation. It wasn't between any important towns or camps, and getting to it would mean a significant deviation from virtually any major road. Few tradesmen were willing to stray too far from the beaten path, and even raiders wouldn't travel where they didn't think there was anything to be taken.

Inside the relatively small interior of the outpost were his four teammates, the soldiers who staffed Brotherhood Outpost Sierra. As Ryan burst in, Knight Alexander Nevsky didn't even bother looking up from the longbarreled sniper rifle he was meticulously examining, cleaning, and adjusting. An Enclave vertibird could have crashed through the roof and it probably wouldn't have been able to interrupt the soft-spoken Soviet when he was so deep in concentration.

Knights Laura Paterson and Paul Carter, however, both looked up from their own activities in light of the abrupt entry. Paterson had been double-checking the contents of her field kit. She took great care in her role as team medic, never finding herself lacking in the supplies needed to treat virtually any battlefield injury.

Paul Carter, on the other hand, was oiling the rotating barrels of his CZ55 'Defender' Minigun. He and Laura routinely locked horns on and off duty, in large part due to Laura's role of patching bullet wounds and Carter's role of producing them at a rate of close to 8,000 per minute. Fittingly, the two were also physical opposites, Carter's hulking frame dwarfing Laura's average height even when she was in armor.

Despite their frequent arguing, Paladin Erik Briggs never sensed any genuine animosity between the two. He was in the process of leaving the bathroom, the only room in the outpost separate from their bunks and supplies. While Carter regarded Ryan's abrupt entry with annoyance, Laura with surprise, and Nevsky with complete indifference, Briggs was simply glad that the team rookie's sudden appearance had come after he'd already finished his trip to the latrine. As far as the paladin was concerned, there was no worse place to be in the even of an emergency than halfway through nature's calling.

"Guys!" Ryan half-shouted, half-gasped, trying (and failing) to keep his voice down, "You're not going to believe-"

"Jesus, calm down," Carter interrupted, "I've made less noise during door breeches than you did there."

Ryan cleared his throat, then continued,

"Sorry,I…I found something new when I was 'scaving."

"Define 'new,'" Paterson cut in, sealing her medkit as she did.

"That's the thing: I'm not entirely sure what it is. I've...never really seen anything like it," Ryan sheepishly admitted, removing his helmet with a pneumatic hiss and scratching his short hair.

"Uh huh," Laura raised an eyebrow, "So you found some porn, then?" Carter burst out laughing. Even Briggs didn't suppress a thin smile. Ryan began to turn red as he pulled up what looked like a sizable briefcase, putting it on the table they usually set their makeshift meals on.

"Fine, take a look for yourself," he said, flipping open the case, "All it says is 'geck.' And frankly, I haven't got a damned idea what it means." Inside the case was a variety of electronics, apparently built into the plastic inside the case, and an unlit screen.

The others were sufficiently intrigued by now, standing from their cots and seats and circling the table. Briggs spun the case around to face him, reaching towards the small keypad beneath the screen.

Briggs jerked his hand back as the screen abruptly lit up, glowing a dull blue, a stark contrast to the moderately dark barracks. Briggs leaned forward again, reading the text that scrolled across the screen, noting that 'geck' was, in fact, an acronym. For what, he wasn't sure, even as he read aloud its function.

"'The G.E.C.K. will collapse all matter within its given radius...and recombine it to form a living, breathing, fertile virgin landscape...and allow life to begin anew.'"

"What the hell does that mean?" Carter finally broke the silence. Ryan rolled his eyes and shot back,

"I already said, I have no idea."

"G.E.C.K: Garden of Eden Creation Kit. Developed pre-war by Vault-Tec industries," Laura abruptly stated eyes focused on the machine. The others stated at her for a long moment before she blinked and muttered an explanation.

"I, uh, heard that when I was still in the Commonwealth." By now, even Nevsky had turned his attention away from his beloved rifle. Briggs wasn't sure if he should be glad that the sharpshooter was paying attention, or nervous that he'd judged the box to be more worthy of his time than his gun.

"Great, now we know what it's called, and what it's supposed to do," Carter interrupted, "But what does any of that even _mean_?" Ryan turned the G.E.C.K. towards himself, reading the text over again.

"It says we can activate it, or leave it be." The new team member looked up at the others, looking at each in turn. Carter shrugged.

"Go for it. What've we got to lose?" He reached forward, tapping 'enter' even as Laura and Briggs' eyes widened in what Ryan could only assume was fear. Fortunately, the device didn't explode, or kill them in any way, shape, or form. In fact, all it did was give them another screen.

"'Are you sure you want to activate it?'" Briggs read, letting out a sigh at the anti-climactic result of Carter's action.

"Christ, _another_ confirmation?" Carter snorted, "Yes, we want to fucking activate it!"

Laura and Briggs had closed their eyes in relief at the lack of catastrophe, only for Carter to reach forward once more and press a single button. A blinding flash of blue light burst from the machine, consuming the Brotherhood Paladins in a micro-sun.

It all lasted only a moment, and when the light faded, a spherical area around where the device was had been burned away to nothing. The case lay on the floor in a glassy-smooth crater, as if all substance within a certain area had ceased to exist. Nearly half the room had been taken, including the whole team, and a chunk of the ceiling.

Now only remained where the G.E.C.K. had taken its unfortunate users. Where, or when, for that matter.

* * *

Dirge Haywood was long since used to being on the run. He'd lost track of the number of people who wanted him dead, and never stayed in the same place for more than a few days. Regulators and Talon mercenaries alike had died by his hands, and the hands of his two companions, Barret James and Jericho Cross.

Dirge had run across Jericho near the beginning of his stint in the DC area. The former Raider had settled down in a small town, but Dirge found quickly that his lust for adventure was still running strong. Fortunately, Jericho had believed that profit gained from traveling alongside Dirge would prove larger than any immediate profit from collecting his bounty

Barret, on the other hand, was an odd case. 'Pyromaniac' somehow didn't quite encompass the full extent of his love of fire. From his modified US Army issue flamethrower to the collection of homemade incendiary bombs that he carried, he was always ready to set something on fire.

Dirge had pulled Barret from a fire that had consumed a two-story house where a group of raiders had taken up camp. The right half of his face and his shoulder were horrifically burned, and he'd taken a few bullets, to boot. From the suffocating smell of cooked flesh and burning hair that coated the area, the raiders were already burnt to death.

As a result of the injuries, part of Barret's face was covered in scar tissue, and his right eye was permanently bloodshot. Not that it mattered. Both eyes were usually concealed behind his pair of soot-darkened googles. His right cheek had burned through, and he chose not to take a skin graft for the sake of intimidation.

He and Jericho had some difficulties at first, a good number of 'scarface' and 'baldy' shots going back and forth. But after a few gunfights, that forced cooperation, the two had come to respect one another, at least as coworkers.

The longest period that they had ever stayed in a single area was a few weeks, which was their present location. They'd recently been inducted into Paradise Falls, the haven for slavers in the DC region. The de facto leader Eulogy Jones had been generous enough to give them board in the general barracks.

A cruel irony of the Paradise Falls slavers was their twisted sense of equality. Anyone had the potential to claim their leadership, regardless of race, creed, or gender. The black Eulogy Jones was a testament to this fact, and several women who'd proven their mettle were given the same treatment as their male comrades.

Here, Dirge's narcotic addictions, Barret's hideous visage, and Jericho's advancing age said nothing while their actions spoke for them.

Jericho knocked his pint against that of the burly Ymir, both downing their drinks in a few gulps before slamming the glasses onto the bar. The assembled slavers cheered, raising their glasses and draining them in suit.

The bartender, a balding man named Frank, poured out a fresh round of drinks. It had been a great day for the brigands of Paradise Falls. The feeble defenses of the ramshackle settlement 'Big Town' had collapsed, and the victorious raiding party had collared most of the people there. A few of the prospective slaves went down fighting, but none of them had any real training, and there were almost no decent weapons among them as it was.

To top it all off, Leroy Walker had returned from his hunt, successfully eliminating the runaway slaves he'd been sent after. A few buyers had already come forward, especially for the reasonably young inhabitants of Big Town. And Paradise Falls had a strict policy when it came to upturns in business: if the caps are brought in, the liquor's brought out.

"A toast!" one slaver, Forty, raised his glass, "To living beyond mere survival!"

"To living!" the group chorused, clinking glasses together and downing drinks.

Jericho was at home in Paradise Falls. Plenty of drinks, plenty of guns, and all the pussy you could collar. He'd been bored out of his mind in Megaton: there was rarely anything to kill, and as it was, the shady barkeep Collin Moriarty was holding a rape charge over his head in case Jericho ever tried anything. The change in setting was a welcome one for the once-retired raider.

Barret and Dirge sat slightly away from the group, a half bottle of whiskey and a pair of glasses between them. While the slavers considered Barret's disfigurement as a badge of honor, his natural, sociopathic tendencies usually had him outside of the crowd.

Dirge, on the other hand, had induced his own social separation because of his abuse of various drugs. He always carried a variety of bottles, hypodermics, and inhalers, each but one of the plethora of narcotics that he'd grown dependent on. Dirge's sunken red eyes and the line of scars along the veins of his arms were testaments to his lifestyle.

Dirge's hand trembled slightly as he poured himself another shot. He rolled up his right sleeve, checking the multiple digital watches he had arrayed along his forearm. Each displayed the time since he'd last partaken of a certain drug, and dictated which he would need to cure the withdrawal symptoms.

He rummaged through one of the pouches that lined his belt, eventually drawing out a few square pills. He popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a swig directly from the bottle of ancient Jack Daniels.

"What the fuck, man?" Jericho abruptly clamped a hand one Dirge's shoulder, "You're sitting over here dropping chems when you should be helping yourself to the pen."

He nodded over to the slave pen, an area of the compound sealed off with chain-link fences. A few of the slavers were dragging women and girls off to the barracks, despite the latter's protests and screams.

"I'm fine," Dirge took a deep breath as he felt the drug take hold, "I've got what I need."

"Sure, man, you got what you need," Jericho shrugged, taking Dirge's shot glass and downing it himself, "But do you got what you _want_?" The raider grinned and slapped Dirge on the back before returning to the heart of the party.

Dirge was left to mull over Jericho's words, no response coming from Barret. Was this lifestyle really what he wanted? Jericho almost definitely hadn't meant to call their lives into question, but it still brought disconcerting thoughts to Dirge's mind. Murdering on a whim, indulging any and all decadent desires, governed by his drug dependence. Was this a life to aspire to?

_Fuck it, I'm trippin' balls here,_ Dirge finally decided. Any and all insight into life when under the influence was to be attributed to the drug in question. He did this damn reflection thing far more often than he'd like to. While others got to float on cloud nine, Dirge got the pleasure of unwanted psychoanalysis.

_Wonderful. Just want I want from drugs._

_

* * *

_

Pronto, proprietor of the slaver's supply shop _Lock and Load_, and a usually light drinker, staggered up the steps of one of the guard posts, still holding a bottle of century old scotch by the neck.

He plopped down on the folding chair at the top, humming the theme to _Gilligan's Island_. He spent a lot of time with old holovids in his basement, seeing as he almost never went scavenging or on missions. It was primarily his role to keep the other slavers' weapons functioning. They brought back a cut of whatever they found in the field, and Pronto turned it into something useful.

For now, he just felt like getting some fresh air to try and clear his vision. Of course, it would probably be a better idea to simply stop drinking. But this simple logic wasn't about to occur to an already drunk man for the same reason that Dirge wouldn't listen to his own insight when high.

Pronto could have sworn that he saw movement on the sandbagged path leading up to the gates. Grouse and Vince were stuck with guard duty, much to their frustration, but they probably had fallen asleep by now.

Pronto was still overanalyzing the situation when a pair muffled coughs interrupted him. He slumped backwards on his chair, the bottle of scotch falling from his nerveless fingers.

A pair of neat holes were punched in his face, one through his right eye and the other through his forehead. Two thin lines of blood trickled down from the holes, but to anyone who might have looked on, he was just another passed out drunk.

Grouse and Vince were down below, having similar fates. A column of figures moved past, their black armor rendering them invisible in the late night. The point man's AR16 marksman carbine would have been hard enough to hear within the Falls even without the drunken carousing. But with the suppressor screwed onto its muzzle, the black ops team might as well have been humming at a rock concert.

One of the men tapped a finger to the side of his armored helmet, activating his commlink.

"Sentries are neutralized, colonel. Proceeding with mission."

"_Good work, sergeant. Send me notice when you've taken the facility. Autumn out._"

Sergeant Ulrich Kastner, leader of the 101st Airborne's strike team, closed the channel. Twelve men, ten of which were clad in the matte-black Enclave powered armor suits. Despite the heavy appearance, largely a product of the power supply and internal gyro that gave the suit its 'hunched' appearance even when upright, the men moved with complete silence. Even the yellow glow of the power plant's visible fan had been covered to prevent detection.

Eight troopers, Kastner included, carried the powerful P98 'Multiplas' plasma rifles, aptly named for their three-pronged barrels that gave them far superior stopping power than their P94 processors. Kastner, however, along with the three men at the head of the formation, kept their weapons slung, favoring their stealth-oriented carbines. Two more troopers, close to the rear, carried sidearms, with their devastatingly powerful (and devastatingly loud) 'Gatling' laser cannons safely hooked to the back-mounted charge pack.

The Gatling laser armed soldiers had to make special adaptations to their armor for the mission. To ensure that the high-powered support weapons functioned at maximum efficiency, they were equipped with the 'Tesla' variant of the basic powered armor, which allotted reactor power from standard but nonessential systems to the heavy weapons.

The result of this technological marvel, unfortunately, was a highly visible series of green power nodes, crackling with energy on the suits' shoulders. The somewhat jerry-rigged solution was to place leather hoods over each node, covering all but a glimmer of radioactive green just below the brown covers.

The final two troopers were tech officers from outside the company's normal shock troops. They wore officer's uniforms and soft caps, lightly reinforced against small arms fire. The two remained behind their better-equipped comrades.

The Enclave had decided to step up its presence in the capitol. The District of Columbia had once been the head of the United States government, and it seemed only fitting that the heir apparent of the federal government should reclaim its native land.

A pair of the soldiers approached the unmanned gate, priming a pair of satchel charges as they did so. The front doors weren't terribly well armored, and the M183 charges contained some twenty pounds of C4. They were designed to take down heavy emplacements, not the rickety doors of Paradise Falls.

The team fell back quite some distance; far enough away to be out of the blast radius, but close enough to get back inside when the doors were gone. The two demolitionists primed their detonators, then depressed the activation studs in practiced unison.

* * *

The detonation would have registered on a Richter Scale in Maryland, had there been one to detect it. People all around the Capitol Wasteland felt what seemed to be rolling thunder in the distance, then went back to their lives.

The residents of Paradise Falls, on the other hand, were jerked from their drunken merriment far more violently than any of the slavers would have wanted.

Several were close enough to the gates to be caught in the massive blast. The closest men were killed by the blast or the immediate shockwave. Slightly further away, shrapnel took lives as metal shards tore unsuspecting slavers apart.

The remaining men, including those at the bar, were in shock for a few crucial moments. This was more than enough time for the Enclave infiltration team to get within the confines of the improvised fortress, coming into view for the first time.

"Shit! Brotherhood!" Jericho shouted, making a grab for his assault rifle. The slavers had a habit of leaving their weapons in a nearby storage locker, just in case they got sufficiently drunk to pull weapons on each other.

Jericho's mistaken assessment was understandable, given the circumstances. First and foremost, he was drunk off his ass, and the team was obscured by smoke. But, possibly more subtly, the presence of powered armor-clad infantry was almost an entirely Brotherhood exclusive feature. It required both the complicated training to use and, more importantly, the actual possession of powered armor, which close to no one outside the Brotherhood had.

A volley of plasma bolts cut down a handful of slavers as the others flipped over chairs and tables as crude forms of cover. Jericho grabbed his aging Chinese made Type 56 assault rifle, holding it by the stock with one hand as he tossed a pair of rifles to two waiting men beside him.

The Type 56 was based off the original Soviet AK-47 model, renown as one of the sturdiest assault rifles, or even firearm in general, ever made. It could fire after being submerged in water, mud, or dust, and required little to no maintenance to sustain its performance.

Jericho had long since become accustomed to the relatively strong kick of the rifle, and the alcohol in his system only further dulled the sensation. The booze was a double-edged sword, however, as the bulk of the rounds missed their targets. Those that did hit, however, glanced off the composite metal plates of the powered armor. It would take many more bullets, and much greater accuracy, if the slavers were to take down any of their attackers.

Jericho ducked behind a flipped table, dropping out the clip and finally fitting in a second.

Ymir was one of the few men in the group to keep his weapon on hand during drinking sessions. Of course, his weapon was the massive 'Super Sledge' warhammer slung across his back, rather than a firearm. That wasn't to say that it was any less deadly than a gun, especially in Ymir's hands.

The Scandinavian warrior laughed heartily as a stray red laser charred his thick steel armor as it glanced off. It may have been heavy, clumsy, and slow, but it offered the best protection of any armor in the Wasteland short of powered armor. Ymir reached back a gauntleted hand, grabbing hold of his hulking warhammer, hefting it and charging into the hail of gunfire.

Ymir always had a policy of charging into the wolves' den when it came to battle, and it was usually up to his son to back him up. Jotun (a name which the son hated) was armed and equipped almost identically to his father, save for using a crudely armored helmet to protect his dirty-blonde hair covered head.

Jotun swore at the sight of his father's foolhardy manuver, and took the chance to slip on his helmet and unlimber his own warhammer. A power-armored soldier, firing his plasma unlimbered Gatling cannon, moved past the young man's position, providing the opportunity to enter battle that Jotun needed.

The first horizontal swing of the hammer crashed into the Enclave soldier's chest plate like a ton of bricks, partially caving in the cuirass and cracking several ribs. The soldier was thrown off his feet and onto his back, dazed and blinded by the blow. Jotun grunted as he lifted the 'sledge over his head and brought it crashing down on the man's head. Even with the enclosed helmet, the trooper didn't have a chance.

Jotun swung the hammer into the next soldier, still soaked in blood and gray matter from the last man. He pushed past another, finding himself beside his father, both swinging their mighty hammers again and again.

But even with their modern equipment, they still lived in a world ruled by guns. A rolling ball of plasma burned a hole in Ymir's chest, sending him falling to the ground like a felled tree. Jotun didn't even have time to mourn his father's death as a barrage of Gatling fire from the remaining heavy trooper engulfed him, the superheated lasers cutting through his armor and flesh beneath.

* * *

Jericho ejected his third empty magazine. At this rate, he would run dry before they could push back the attackers. He put in his last full mag, taking a deep breath and popping backup from behind the table.

A carbine round entered through his left eye, punching through the back of his skull in a spray of gray matter. Jericho dropped without a word, his prized rifle still clenched in his dead grip.

* * *

Sergeant Kastner watched the slaver collapse down the scope of his scoped rifle, then moved to the next one.

The Wastelander sported a disfigured face and a nasty flamethrower. One of Kastner's men was consumed in flames as the slaver let lose a stream of napalm, his armor turning white-hot in seconds and burning the man alive within it. Kastner took aim, but realized there was no need as his commlink chirped in his ear.

"_Echo-two-three on site._ _Safeties off, and raining fire_."

A stream of high-powered laser rounds cut the pyromaniac in half, igniting the flame pack in the process. The resulting detonation turned a second Enclave soldiers and several more slavers into screaming torches.

The VB-02 Vertibird hovered overhead, its nose-mounted Gatling laser firing below. Slavers were blown apart by the powerful weapon, even stronger than the man-portable variant. Kastner was down to seven men, but the battle was already in his favor, and with the air support, their victory was assured.

* * *

Dirge fumbled through his collection of narcotics, finally finding a liquid-filled inhaler. He exhaled quickly, then took a deep puff from the Jet inhaler. Almost immediately, his pupils dilated, and time seemed to slow down as the euphoric sensation set in.

Gunfire became muted, and slavers fell to the ground trailing blood all in slow motion, as if they were fighting under water. Under the drug, the entire scene seemed almost artistic, in a macabre sort of way. Dirge knew that the high wouldn't be for that long, but as it was, he was pretty confident that he would probably be dead by the time the Jet wore off.

He clicked back the hammer of his longbarreled .44 Magnum revolver, rising from his cover and starting to move even as he pulled the trigger. The first round punched through the thin, unarmored patch of an armored soldier's neck. The round ripped through the other side of his throat, leaving a golf ball sized hole in his windpipe.

Dirge fired again, the next round catching another soldier's shoulder plate, twisting his body with the force of the round but failing to penetrate. A soldier turned his plasma rifle on Dirge, firing off one of the glowing green blobs towards the newly sighted threats.

The plasma round caught Dirge's left arm in its burning embrace, crumbling it to ash from the bicep down. Fortunately, Dirge was still riding on the increased endurance of his earlier Buffout dose. He wouldn't realize the severity of his injuries until much, much later, by which point he expected to be long dead.

Another round leapt from the .44 barrel. This shot struck an exposed plasma grenade on the belt of the soldier he'd stunned a moment before, consuming the man in a veritable green sun that ensued.

But a volley of rifle fire was more than even the drugged Dirge could withstand. He couldn't feel the pain of the impacts, but found the damage too much to stay on his feet. He tried to lift his Magnum, only for his hand to dissolve into blood as Kastner put a burst into it. The revolver fell to the ground alongside several of Dirge's fingers. A single round more through his forehead was enough to end his life for good.

* * *

To be a woman in the Wasteland was hard enough. To be a woman among the slavers of Paradise Falls was even harder, because it required that you be more useful as a cohort than as an item to be sold.

Thus was the situation for Carolina Red for years. Her affinity for violence and sadism was strong even by raider standards, and her simple refusal to die left her walking away from situations where countless others did not.

Then again, she was probably wishing she were dead following the 5.56 round she took to the stomach. She would bleed out, slowly and painfully. Pain wasn't nearly as enjoyable when it was happening to you.

She'd managed to claw her way across the dirt, bullets, lasers, and plasma bolts whizzing over her head, finally running a bloody hand over Forty's fallen rocket launcher. Forty himself lay alongside it, save for the upper half of his, which was scattered across the ground behind his body. But Red focused on his launcher. There was still a missile in the tube, good for one shot. After that, she'd be dead, whether by her wounds or by the retaliatory attack.

Red rolled over onto her back, pushing her back against a fencepost to prop herself up. She flipped out the targeter, looking through the scope and drawing a bead on the low-hovering VTOL. It was the biggest target available, and the best for ordinance of the launcher's magnitude.

The _thump _of the firing rocket, complete with the hiss of the ignition, was enough to alert the remaining soldiers. Even as assault rounds tore apart her body, Red had the satisfaction of watching the right engine of the VTOL disappear in gouts of flames and shrapnel, and died with a bloody smile on her face.

The Vertibird spun in the air, trying to stay airborne to no avail. Kastner had time to look up at the heavily damaged aircraft as it crashed down on the remnants of the team, engulfing them in a massive ball of flames as the fuel tank ignited, no time to curse their deaths by their own air support.

* * *

Within minutes, the only sound in the entire encampment was the sound of crackling flames, occasionally sharp cracks as discarded ammunition being cooked off. An Enclave soldier had opened up with his carbine on the slave pen, so even they were lying dead on the ground, unable to celebrate the deaths of their captors.

Paradise Falls was anything but paradise. The air was heavy with the smell of death, but no one was left to smell it. Eulogy Jones himself, once the head honcho of the entire region, was nothing more than another body in the courtyard.

It was a cruel twist of fate for an already cruel people. The Enclave had struck Paradise Falls in its greatest moment of triumph, making their downfall all the more tragic. Bigtown, too, was killed the moment the slave pens were hosed with 5.56mm assault rounds.

The blood of the slavers and the Enclave soaked into the earth, mingling in the soil. Such a concentration of death and chaos did not go unnoticed by forces not even of Earth. The blood rose again from the earth, forming a thick red mist that even the sharpest eyes could not pierce. It spread over the entire compound, erasing Paradise from the landscape in a sanguine fog.

Countless scavengers, traders, and others tried to find their way through the mist, knowing the value of the items that Paradise Falls left behind, but all would simply wander blindly for as long as it took to find their way out another side. They never once ran across the ruins of Paradise Falls, as if it had been literally consumed by the cloud.

Paradise Falls would become a legend, a veritable ghost story, chilling the hearts of countless travelers across the wasteland. No one knew what had happened to its occupants, and the Enclave listed the assault team as missing in action, presumed dead. There was no follow-up investigation. In essence, there was no one left with any connection to the Falls, or to the men who had died there that day.

In the Capitol Wasteland, the dead were gone. But elsewhere, the dead had the alarming tendency not to stay that way.

* * *

The first thing Dirge noticed was how soft the ground was. It was the hard-packed dirt of the wasteland, it was soft, green grass.

_Wait, what?_ Dirge snapped out of the drug-induced stupor and pushed himself up, looking around at what was most certainly not Paradise Falls. This was…for lack of a better word, an actual paradise. Lush green grass, healthy trees, and both as far as he could see.

But Dirge had never believed he would go to the same place as heroes did. The Wasteland had a tendency to shake one's faith in a benevolent higher power, but Dirge always felt that death would sort the righteous from the wicked one way or another. And he knew firmly which side of the line he fell.

Regardless, that didn't answer where the hell he was.

Only then did he notice that there was a good amount of debris around him, including quite a few other dazed or still unconscious people. He saw Barret running a hand across his waist, bemused that he was no longer in two halves, while had over his untouched eye, as if confused that it could still see.

"…are we in heaven?" Someone finally posed the question that everyone else was thinking. The answer came from an unexpected source.

"I doubt it. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here."

The armored Enclave sergeant raised his assault carbine, accompanied by the clatter of other soldiers following suite and the whine of charging plasma weapons. Dirge saw the array of soldiers, all twelve of them, alive and well, as well as their VTOL, intact and undamaged, but mercifully landed.

The slavers readied their own guns, cocking and aiming a variety of weapons at their killers. Each side held their fire, held back only by the prospect of a second, more permanent death, but waiting for the one stray shot that would start another bloodbath.

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa!" Eulogy Jones pulled himself up, holding out open palms to either group, "Are you lot really that dense? We're here, in this damn sylvan glen, and you're all about to kill each other all over again?" He snapped his fingers, pointing to the Enclave officer.

"You, you're in charge, right? Stripes on your shoulder and all? What's your name?"

"Sergeant Ulrich Kastner, 101st airborne," the officer's mechanically filtered voice replied over the suit's speakers.

"Pleasure to meet you," Eulogy couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of their formal introduction, "I go by Eulogy Jones, but you can call me either. Now, sergeant, before we all get killed again, let me ask you: what were your orders?"

"Take control of the area designated 'Paradise Falls,' using as much force as deemed necessary to cleanse the area," Kastner replied without a moment's hesitation. A few scowls spread across the slaver ranks, but Eulogy knew he had a chance at salvaging the situation.

"Alright, then tell me, Sergeant Kastner, does this look like Paradise Falls?" Kastner was surprised. This slaver was clearly the brains of the operation. He'd gathered his bearings this soon after such an abrupt change in scenery, while even Kastner was preparing for another firefight.

"Hm. Fair enough. Consider my orders nonapplicable," Kastner, lowered his weapon, keeping his finger near the trigger, but gesturing for his men to do the same.

"That's a good boy," Eulogy smiled, waving off the slavers. They, too, lowered their weapons. Each side shifted uneasily, caught in an awkward silence as both sides assumed the other was about to speak. Eulogy rolled his eyes. Looks like he'd need to keep pushing things along.

"Look, I'll be the first to say that we all got off to a bad start," Eulogy addressed slavers and soldiers alike, "In fact, I think I can safely say that we got off to the worst start possible. But if death makes men equals, then we'd all best start acting like it, 'cause I'm sure that no one here knows what happens from here." A few men nodded hesitantly, others still glancing at their cohorts, uncertain. Eulogy continued, undaunted.

"Just to start off, what kind of gear do you have in your ship?" Eulogy looked over to Kastner. The sergeant glanced over to one of the demolitionists, nodding for him to proceed. The man flipped open a wrist-mounted computer, rattling off the VTOL's supply list.

"A few prefab roadblocks, couple terminals, comm tower, plenty of guns and ammo, and power supplies for the lot."

"Provisions?"

"Enough for a few weeks, but that's for our numbers."

"Good enough," Eulogy glanced back over to Kastner, "Sergeant, have your men set up camp here. If you've got camo, use it. We'll spread out from here and see if we can find anything resembling civilization."

Kastner was a fairly big man to begin with, and only bigger in his armor. He stepped up to Eulogy, holding up one finger as he slung his rifle with his free hand.

"Let's make one thing clear: you're not in charge here," Kastner said slowly, "You can send your men wherever you damn well please, but don't assume the same for mine. A ceasefire doesn't mean you get to jump into the chain of command. You need something from my men, or anything stamped as Enclave property, you go through me. Got it?"

"Of course, Sergeant," Eulogy slapped a hand on his armored shoulder, "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Good. We'll have basecamp up in less than an hour. I'll see if I can't hail command on the comm channels." Eulogy chuckled, and Kastner cocked his helmeted head.

"Something funny, slaver?"

"You'll probably try it anyway, but I don't see much point in trying to contact your superiors," Eulogy smiled grimly, "Unless you ran across an unending forest on your way to the Falls, I doubt we're in DC anymore."


	2. From Dusk 'til Dawn

**Right then, Chapter Two. Introduces one of the 'natives' of the new region, and gives some very minor background for those of you unfamiliar with the Elder Scrolls series. **

Shield Shiefson ripped the wooden shafted arrow from the body of a slain deer. He flicked off the bulk of the blood, wiping it once on his pant leg before returning it to his quiver with the rest of his arrows.

He laid aside his family heirloom bow, a masterpiece of long since forgotten Elven craftsmanship. One of his distant ancestors had acquired it directly from one of the famed craftsmen of the Altmer, known as the High Elves to most other races of Tamriel.

Shield had left the cold northern land of Skyrim for the warmer climate of Cyrodiil some twelve years ago. Now, he was coming up on his thirtieth year, and his seventh as an Empire-sanctioned forester. The job paid him to do what he already wanted to do: live off the land, and use his prized bow.

Half his work was simply camping out in the woods. The other was split between hunting (for food or sport) and dealing with the occasional bandit. It certainly helped that the wealthy city of Skingrad was just south of his current encampment. Their level of security alone was enough to deter most potential criminals from even being near his location.

Shield lifted the body of the buck over his shoulders, shifting it and beginning his trek back to the small camp. He'd clean it there, where he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. He'd taken the liberty of setting up a few rope snares and iron-jawed bear traps, ensuring that nothing would get within twenty meters of his bedroll unless he wanted it to.

He was about fifty meters out when he heard the familiar _snap_ of one of his bear trap's metal teeth. Instead of the usual howl or roar of a wounded animal, he heard a stream of shouts. Human sounds.

Shield dropped the deer, unlimbering his bow and nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. He could make out sounds ahead, but not the usual screams of pain that accompanied a man's leg being cut to the bone. Shield had even seen shorter men lose legs at the knee to such traps.

Instead of agony, it sounded like…cursing. Shield couldn't understand whatever language the voice was in, but he had more than enough life experience to recognize profanity when he heard it. Still, it didn't change the fact that a foreigner sounded more annoyed than anything after having set off one of Sheild's more lethal traps.

A second voice followed, a combination of surprise and mirth from the sound of it, apparently responding to the first's predicament. Either the unfortunate man's companion was a sadist, or the injury was so insubstantial that laughter was appropriate. Shield pressed himself against a tree, taking only a slow look as he grew closer to the men.

There were only two, but with each decked from head to toe in armor, Shield wasn't about to let his guard down. One was prying open the beartrap still attached to his leg, biting his armored leg below his knee. The powerful springs had irritated him to no end, but it hadn't even penetrated the armor. It looked like faded steel or iron, but had to have been much stronger for the trap to leave little more than a few scratches. Their helmets concealed their entire faces, and had a pair of tubes protruding from the lower portion, reaching back behind the helmet.

The first one flipped his middle finger to the second, then grabbed hold of either side of the bearstrap's jaws. With a metallic screech, the trap snapped in two as he pulled in apart at an angle. Shield hastily pulled his head back, taking a quick and deep breath. Few natural things had strength like that, and what few that did were rarely benevolent.

Even worse than their armor were their weapons. The one who'd ripped apart the trap had picked up a massive, multi-barreled weapon, with a trailing strip of iron that led back to a large backpack. The other held a much smaller weapon, but it, too, was alien to Shield. Both weapons (assuming that's what they were) seemed vaguely reminiscent of some of the magical artifacts that he'd seen. He'd also seen the destructive power that such arcane constructs could hold, even in the hands of those lacking any real combat skill.

Shield kept both hands on his weapon and listened. The two were still speaking in their foreign tongue, and still a good distance away. All he could do was wait and hope they didn't notice him. He didn't want to risk attacking with on the off chance that their bizarre armor could stop arrows.

"Aw, man," Laura laughed, bracing herself on her knees, "I can't believe you didn't see that thing."

"Fuck you," Carter kicked the broken bear trap, mangled by his efforts to pry it off his leg, "Didn't see you trying to warn me."

"I could have done that, sure," Laura propped her rifle against her shoulder, "But this way was a lot more entertaining to watch."

"Whatever," Carter grunted, pushing through the foliage with the assistance of his armor, "Maybe this at least means I can shoot the guy that set the damn thing…" He paused a moment, then looked back to Laura.

"Wait, so this means-"

"You just figured that out?" Laura raised an eyebrow behind her helmet, "Yes, of course it means that there are people here. What else would set a trap? Bears?"

"Well, it _is_ a bear tr-"

"Just stop right there," Laura sighed, pushing past him and walking ahead, "Before you say anything else to make me think you're any more of an idiot."

"So's that it?" Carter shifted his weight to take some of the edge off the weight of his heavy minigun.

"Is what it?"

"That trap. Briggs said he wanted us to report back soon as we found a 'sign of civilization.' I'm guessin' the trap qualifies as that." As much as Laura hated to admit it, Carter had remembered their superior's order to a tee, and she'd planned on pushing on.

"Fine," she responded after a moment, "Did you remember to mark the distance?"

"Yeah, yeah," he used a free hand to check the small pace monitor hooked up to his multi-pouched belt, "We are…two-point-four miles out, east south-east."

"Alright," she stooped down and picked up the beartrap, "We'll take this back and see if Briggs has any use for it."

"Fine by me," Carter shouldered his minigun, "But you're carrying the damn thing."

Shield waited until the footsteps faded away, and then a short while more to ensure that they'd truly left. He took a slow glance around the tree trunk, scanning the trees while exposing as little of himself as he could. Nothing moved within his line of sight.

He took a few cautions steps out, keeping his bow out and an arrow nocked. He swept the weapon over the area, then allowed himself to relax some. He was only some ten meters away from his encampment. It took only a few seconds to get to his bedroll and, more importantly, the rucksack beside it. He sifted through the supplies he'd left inside, fishing out several items, among which were a piece of parchment and a crude pen.

Setting the parchment on a reasonably flat rock, Shield hastily scrawled his report. He tried to keep it as formal as possible, but he gave most priority to getting down the overall message of urgency and the nature of the problem.

Once the report had been completed, he took out a third item: a small, glass vial, stopped up with an aging cork. He pulled out the cork with a _pop_, taking care to pour no more than a single drop on the center of the page.

The magic-imbued liquid did its work quickly, despite the small quantity. The drop ignited the paper from the center, consuming it in a bright blue flame in an instant. Shield re-corked the bottle and returned it to his bag. Now, he would wait, and see whether or not his superiors deemed this situation to be important.

Dirge glanced around at the surrounding woods. He'd been able to navigate the wastes well enough to survive, but with this much greenery, everything looked like the same patch of forest, repeated ad nausem. Eulogy thought they might find something of interest by wandering the woods, but Dirge thought they'd be lucky to find their way back to camp.

A sharp whistle caught Dirge's attention. The chem-addict clicked back the hammer of his revolver, pushing his way through the foliage and to the source of the sound.

Dirge and Vince, the third member of the man scouting team, converged on Barret. Dirge was prepared to ask what the almost-mute had summoned them for, but it was obvious enough from what Barret had to his back: a carved stone structure was behind the soft-spoken pyromaniac, a protruding ring of columns with a stone circle mounted on top.

But more importantly was the relatively small structure the columns were mounted on, especially the spiraling staircase that sank into the stone to an engraved door.

"Hot damn," Vince whistled, shouldering his faded Type 56 rifle, "That's something, ain't it?"

"It's somethin'," Dirge tapped one of the stone columns with his pistol's barrel, "But that don't tell us what it is…"

Barret jumped down the steps, running a hand across the door. The symbols led down to the circle in the center, which protruded slightly. Barret turned the primer at the muzzle of his custom flamethrower, igniting the tiny blue flame that served as the weapon's ignition. He kept a hand on the molded grip and a finger over the trigger, letting the worn strap hold the bulk of the weapon's weight as his free hand pressed the stone circle.

He took a few quick steps back as the door groaned open, sliding apart at the middle and into a pair of recessions in the walls. He was tempted to fill the entrance with a burst of napalm, but that could alert any persons inside of the new presence, not to mention a waste of fuel.

Barret reached up to his vest and flicked on the miner's light attached there. The small but strong beam illuminated the darkness, sweeping from side to side, revealing a cramped hallway, followed by a drop, presumably more stairs.

"Hey," he called out, softly enough to avoid alerting anyone inside, but loudly enough for Dirge and Vince to hear. Dirge turned at the rare sound of Barret's voice, following it to climb down the stairs to his companion. Vince followed suit.

Barret gestured down the hall. Dirge got the messaged, and tapped Vince's shoulder before indicating Barret's next move. His general policy of silence allowed him to read the signs perfectly. He put both hands on his flamethrower, moving ahead of the other two on point.

Barret's flamethrower was both an upgrade and a downgrade from the original US Army model. He'd forgone the large backpack that had adorned the original, replacing it instead with an underslung, compact tank between the trigger and the foregrip. The barrel was a bit longer, with a custom painted shark's mouth cover on the front, charred from years of use. It would have been useless, if not dangerous, had Barret been in the middle of the formation, but in the rear or, especially the front, it was a valuable tool against anything in such confined quarters.

The staircase led down only a few flights before opening into a massive, dark chamber. Vince switched on his rifle's side-mounted flashlight, while Dirge simply held his own high-beam beside his revolver.

An abrupt burst of light caused all three to turn their weapons to the source: a hand-cut stone perched atop one of the short pillars that dotted the open room, glowing a gentle blue.

Dirge poked it with his revolver, half out of curiosity and half out of caution, then lifted it from its metal holder. He turned it over in his hands, looking for a power source. It wasn't particularly warm, nor was there any other means to light it up. It felt a bit lighter than it probably should have for a rock that, with the bulk of its weight concentrated at the wrought iron casing at the base.

"Can't find a battery…ain't hot, either. Hey, what's that word for those fangly-fish that glow without heating up?" Dirge turned to the others, holding out the stone, "Bio-somethin' or other?"

"Bio-luminescent," Barret answered without hesitation. Dirge raised an eyebrow at Barret. The pyro shrugged, then continued to look through the room. One of these days, Dirge would need to ask what he had done before they'd met. He was a lot brighter than most people gave him credit for.

"Hey," Vince called out, "Another one here!" He plucked the stone from its perch, slinging his assault rifle and reaching back to his rucksack. He unbuckled the top flap, dropping the stone into the mostly empty bag. He took another, and slowly the blue light began to bleed through the gaps in his bag.

"Keep it down," Dirge whispered, "We still don't know if anyone's in here."

"Yeah, right," Vince dropped another into his bag, clattering against the others, "Place's quiet as a grave. This is a damn ruin. All _Indiana Jones'_ n' shit."

"Yeah, but those places were all riddled with traps."

"Whatever. You gonna help me carry some of these or not?"

A commonly cited fact about frogs: if you drop one in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out. But, if you place it in normal water and slowly heat it, the frog will die before it realizes the fatal change in temperature.

As much as humans like to think otherwise, they're ultimately little more than animals with a particular adeptness for tools. This amphibious fact can be seen with humans, especially at this very moment with the trio within the Ayleid ruin.

Each of the glowing stones generated a comparatively small amount of light. When combined with the other stones in the room, they provided dim but nonetheless adequate lighting for the entire chamber, brushing away darkness from all but the high ceiling.

A small group of shadow-shrouded figures crawled along the ceiling, making use of their own strength and dexterity, not to mention the grooves long since carved into the stone. They bided their time, watching as the three humans snuffed out, one by one, the light that the stones provided. The change was gradual, and their own lights made it hard for the men to notice that they were, slowly but surely, plunging the chamber into total darkness.

One of the figures cocked its head, filthy back hair hanging past its face. It focused on one of the men, the loud one. Its eyes closed a moment, once a dull brown but otherwise normal, then opened. They turned a deep red, with reptilian slits for pupils. For the creature, the entire world was light up as bright as day, albeit with a red tint.

The prey was talking again in its foreign tongue, looking over to one of the others, grinning in its ignorance. The figure above dropped down, landing noiselessly behind the first man. The others above watched as it flexed its claw-like hands and bared its fanged teeth, hands dancing over the man's shoulders as its teeth plunged into his neck.

Vince screamed in pain as the thing's teeth sank into his skin, just where his neck met his shoulder. The wound spurted blood, some landing on the head of his flashlight, bathing the area in a dull red light.

"Jesus Christ! Get it off!" Dirge didn't need to be told twice. He lifted his revolver with one smooth motion and fired off a round, clipping Vince's shoulder but, more importantly, catching the thing behind him with the full force of the .44 Magnum round.

It skidded across the tiled floor, dripping Vince's blood from its mouth and its own blood from the hole in its right pectoral. It let out a feral screech, bending its knees and hurling itself forward towards Dirge with superhuman litheness.

Dirge's revolver boomed twice, the first bullet a rare miss. But the second caught it just beside its nose, blowing half its face off. The momentum from its jump carried it to crumple at Dirge's feet.

"Fuck! Up! UP!" Vince screamed, dropping his rifle and drawing his sidearm while his other hand pressed his still-pumping wound. Dirge and Barret both looked up, only to realize that a good five more of the things were right above them.

Barret let lose a stream of flames even as the attackers were falling towards the trio, engulfing one in incinerating flames. It landed with an unearthly screech, charging the pyromaniac despite the fires that engulfed it.

Dirge fired his revolver as one was reaching out to him, still airborne. Its fingers were nearly touching the barrel when the massive bullet blew its hand into chunks, scattering his fingers on the floor and showering Dirge in blood.

The beast landed, nearly naked except for a ragged loincloth. If Dirge hadn't seen what they were capable of, he could have mistaken them for horribly unkept humans. It swung its good hand, catching Dirge's arm and sending his revolver skittering across the floor. Dirge's eyes widened in surprise at the thing's speed as it struck his sternum with the bleeding stump that was its other hand, hurling him halfway across the chamber as more of its allies landed.

Dirge hit the ground hard, rolling across the floor to avoid being crushed by another falling figure, this one decked from head to chest in gleaming obsidian armor. It seemed better kept than the others, probably a leader of some sort. None of that was any concern to Dirge as he reached for his belt, drawing and firing his N99 10mm pistol.

The hollowpoint ammunition traded armor penetration for the ability to devastate muscle and flesh. The bullets were second to none against unarmored targets, which encompassed most creatures in the Wasteland, but were of significantly limited use against body armor. Despite its almost medieval appearance, the hulk's plate armor proved far sturdier than Dirge had hoped. The rounds sparked off his cuirass, denting it, but failing to penetrate. The man was unfazed by the new attack, reaching to his own hip and drawing a wicked shortsword.

Dirge pulled himself to his feet with a new weapon in hand, this time in the form of a syringe, bound to additional vials with brown tape. The auto-injector sent a cocktail of combat drugs into his system, spreading in seconds and taking affect in only a short time more. Hopefully, it would be long enough to have him ready before he'd get his head lopped off.

Vince's breath came out in gasps, due both to fear and pain, as he pulled the trigger of his Colt 1911. The eighth round sped from the chamber and punched a hole in his foe's shoulder. The bearded man looked down at the bloody hole, smirking and turning his demonic eyes back to the shocked slaver. The previous seven rounds had either missed or inflicted similarly useless wounds on the second half-naked creature that advanced on Vince as his pistol clicked empty.

The beast opened his mouth and bared his fangs as a torrent of flames consumed him, turning him into a screaming, dancing torch. Its companion whirled to the source as the butt of Barret's flamethrower smashed into his jaw, breaking teeth and sending him reeling.

The man recovered quickly, grabbing hold of the flamethrower's barrel and forcing it up as another stream of flames burned into the ceiling. It was clearly not happy about being anywhere near the intense flames, but proximity was clearly more preferable to outright consumption. Barret swore, trying to wrestle the weapon out of its grip.

Mustering the courage to help his savior, Vince tackled the creature from the side, throwing it off the weapon and landing in a heap beside it. He kicked one of his booted feet against its back as it flailed, trying to right itself, and pushing himself away from it. He covered his eyes as Barret turned the flamethrower on the thrashing creature, incinerating it with a continuous stream.

Dirge dropped his empty pistol, drawing his knife from its sheath behind him. But even in the dim light, he realized that he expensive-looking combat knife he'd stolen from the Enclave supply crates was noticeably more elaborate than he had noticed beforehand. In his haste to find something worth stealing, he'd simply picked what he thought was a sizable knife, not seeing the two-part grip or the large teeth that made up the serrated edge.

The armored man laughed at the smaller weapon, twirling his sword and swinging it in a downward slash. Dirge lifted his own weapon, catching the shortsword between the teeth of the blades. He pushed the high-tech weapon with his free hand, barely holding back the one-handed strike with both his own arms. The attacker laughed, revealing his fanged teeth. Dirge's grip began to give. The man's strength was almost far beyond the human norm, and only the Psycho running through his veins was allowing Dirge to hold as long as he was. In desperation, Dirge reinforced his grip with his free hand, involuntarily squeezing the second portion of the grip.

The weapon's roar filled the chamber, followed by the metallic wrench of the shortsword's blade being sheared from its hilt. Both men were frozen in shock for a few seconds, marveling as the teeth of the knife whirled like the edge of a chain saw. Dirge recovered first and saw the opening, forcing the aptly named 'ripper' past his guard and into his throat. The man gasped as the rotating blades bit into his unarmored neck, ripping their way through his windpipe.

"Who's laughing now, huh?" Dirge forced the blade further into his throat, oblivious to the spray of blood that splattered his face, "_Who's laughing now?_"

Dirge stopped the weapon's rampage when it started grinding against vertebrae. He tore it from the ragged gash that used to be his foe's neck, then let him topple like a felled tree.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself from the Psycho's rush. His fingers were still twitching, and would probably stay that way for a few hours. The drug had boosted his strength, reaction time, and endurance, but it had the nastiest withdraw of any of his addictions. As such, he avoided its use whenever possible.

"What…the fuck," Vince barely choked out, "What the **fuck** was that?" He gestured wildly with his empty gun, spurts of blood still seeping through the fingers pressed to his shoulder.

"Eh," Dirge shrugged, "Vampires?"

"_**Vampires**_?" Vince shouted, "Fucking vampires? Since when do vampires even fucking exi-"

"I don't want to hear anything about 'I don't believe in vampires'," Dirge cut him off, lifting a finger to silence him, "Because _I_ don't believe in vampires, but I believe in my own two eyes, and what _I_ saw is fucking vampires!"

The fifth and final 'vampire' sank its teeth into Dirge's outstretched arm. He howled in pain, landing an instinctive fist onto the beast's face, breaking its nose and throwing it back. It regained its footing only for the top of its head to vanish in a spray of gray matter and a loud _boom_.

Barret blew smoke from the muzzle of Dirge's revolver, then tossed it to its rightful owner as he tore a strip of medical gauze for his wounded arm arm. Dirge grunted and holstered the weapon, hoping his drug-fueled rant was wrong.

"Grab your bag," Dirge grumbled, gesturing to Vince's rucksack, "Let's get the hell out of here before more of the local wildlife finds us." No response from Vince. He was probably still making a big deal about his injury, or-

_Lying facedown_, Dirge sighed internally. Vince was lying prone on the ground, still leaking blood. Dirge knelt down and slapped his shoulder.

"C'mon, ya' pussy," he grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook it, "Get up. We're…ah shit." Dirge put two fingers to Vince's neck, feeling for a pulse.

"…well," Dirge stood, picking up Vince's bag and rifle and slinging them both, "Let's say a few words in his memory when we've gotten out of here."

He looked over to Barret, who'd just cut a small pouch from the waist of the armored 'vampire'. He shook it, and heard the familiar jingle of coins. He shouldered his flamethrower and wordlessly joined Dirge. At least the trip wasn't a _total_ loss. They hadn't known Vince terribly well anyway.

**Same deal as usual, R&R, anonymous accepted. **


	3. Predators

**Whew. A bit long on this update, but a fair sized chapter, and I'm through one of the busier times of the year. **

"A simple scouting mission…" Eulogy rubbed his palms against either side of his short-shorn hair. He stood in front of Dirge and Barret in his personal tent, complete with a collapsible desk, chair, and even a computer terminal pulled from the Enclave's supplies. He was, to say the least, not happy with the results of their job.

"Sir, it really wasn't-" Dirge tried to speak, but Eulogy continued regardless, silencing him.

"…yet you come back wounded and a man short. If that weren't enough, you also came back carrying half your weight in radioactive rocks." Dirge furrowed his brow.

"Wait, these things aren't-" Again, Eulogy cut him off, this time with the rapid clicking of a handheld Geiger counter.

"Oh."

"'Oh' is right, Haywood. You just brought back a good fifty pounds of irradiated stones. It's damned low in each, to be sure, but put enough in a pile and you can have rad poisoning in a few hours. Christ almighty, how'd you survive before you got to the 'Falls?"

"Alright, I'm…sorry," Dirge swallowed his pride and apologized, "We should have checked them before bringing them back. But Vince was dead, I got bit, and we just wanted to get back alive, so we grabbed his bag and hightailed it out." Eulogy sighed a took a deep breath, then continued in a much calmer tone.

"Go back a second. What attacked you?"

"Just a bunch of crazies hopped up on something, from the looks of it. Beats me what."

"I find that hard to believe. In your _professional_ opinion, what would best allow them to kill an armed man, in almost pitch black conditions, with nothing more than their hands and teeth?"

"Easy enough to find drugs to boost strength," Dirge shrugged, ignoring the jab at his narcotics abuse, "I've got a few on me now. For the darkness, I dunno."

"Our armor has a light amplification feature," Sergeant Kastner stepped through the folds of the tent, armor still on but helmet removed, apparently having been eavesdropping the whole time, "Did they have any kind of goggles, or anything like that?"

"Nothing like that. Most of 'em were near naked," Dirge scratched his head, "Can't see how they'd be able to see with no help. I guess they just used the light from our flashlights. Can't think of anything else."

"Let me see that cut you got," Kastner abruptly asked, gesturing to Dirge's arm, bound with a stained bandage. Dirge didn't see the harm in the odd request. He'd probably need to change the bandage anyway. He unwound the gauze, revealing bite beneath.

"Holy shit," Eulogy whistled, "That nasty, man." The bite was still raw, and white pus was forming around the ridges of the wound. Worse still, tendrils of black were reaching out from the bite itself into his arm, tracing several veins.

"What did you say bit you?" Kastner looked up from the wound, "This looks like it had bigger canines than a gorilla."

"Just one of the crazies. No idea what he was doing with teeth that sharp, though."

"Dirge, I don't give two shits how crazy you are, bein' a psycho doesn't give you fangs," Eulogy laughed, "Looks like you got bit by a damn vampire." Dirge and Barret exchanged quick glances. Eulogy's smile dropped off his face.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Kastner's hand shot to his sidearm. Eulogy caught the movement, as did Dirge and Barret, and each went for their respective weapons. In a moment, the three-way conversation had turned into a four-way standoff, with Barret and Dirge on one side and Eulogy and Kastner on their own.

"You cannot be serious," Eulogy clicked back the hammer of his scoped revolver, "Are you saying that…wait, since when do vampires even _exist_?"

"Forget that Dracula shit," Kastner shot back, "That wound is infected as hell, and he's got whatever drove those nudists crazy."

"So what's your plan, _Sergeant_?" Eulogy placed a condescending emphasis on his rank, "Maybe we ought to get some silver bullets to put him down."

"Silver's for werewolves," Barret spoke up.

"I know silver _bullets_ are, but I'm pretty sure silver does something with vamps, too."

"I think that's only if it's blessed," Dirge put in.

"What's wrong with you people?" Kastner forced them all back to the matter at hand, "My _point_ is that I won't have someone with African Rabies wandering around the camp."

"I'll set up a tent and put him under guard. If you get worse…" Kastner looked over to Dirge, "…they'll but two in your computer and burn the body." He slowly lifted his left hand in an open palm, then holstered his pistol. One by one, the other three followed suit.

"Sound reasonable?" This time, he was addressing Eulogy. The slaver sighed and sat down at his desk.

"Works for me. He's your problem now."

* * *

Considering that he was effectively under extreme quarantine, the setup was quite nice. Dirge had a good cot, some MREs, and a few books to keep him occupied. He only had to put a request in to one of the guards outside if he wanted something else.

Dirge sprawled back on his cot, reading, fittingly enough, Bram Stoker's _Dracula._ Pronto had the holovid of Bella Lugosi's rendition of Dracula somewhere, presumably still in his shop at Paradise Falls.

It was only when they bit your neck, wasn't it? That's at least how all the stories went. Seemed like the 'vampires' in real life didn't have the same theatric flare that Lugosi did. Then again, real-world counterparts almost always inevitably paled in comparison to their film reflections.

Besides, it's not like it actually _sucked_ any of his blood. Hell, it bit him on the _arm_. There isn't even an artery there. From the looks of it, the wound was just infected. Cutter had given him a few shots of something-or-other, and within a few days he'd be as right as rain.

He flipped over to the next page as he dismissed the train of thought. Vampires were the stuff of myth, not reality. Same thing as werewolves and zombies. All were just specters to float in the dark corners of a person's mind. Only belief made them real, and Dirge had long since lost his belief.

* * *

Pronto was hewing his way through to woods a few hundred feet from the main encampment. It seemed like things were already going south for the coalition, with Vince turning up dead and Dirge put up in Cutter's tent. Nothing was going their w-

Pronto froze. It seemed too good to be true. Nestled in among the trees, taking up no more space than it absolutely needed. Sure, it was on a slight angle, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He could have laughed aloud at his change in fortunes.

Pronto had never done real field work, at least not for quite some time, but the surge of emotion gave him a second wind as he sprinted back to the encampment.

"Chief!" he shouted, unable to keep from laughing, "Eulogy!" Eulogy pushed through the front flap of his tent, shielding his eyes from the noon sun and looking over to the overjoyed merchant.

"Calm the hell down. You're gonna wake the dead with that shouting," he turned his head and spat on the ground, "Now what's all the hollerin' about?"

"_Lock n' Load_, sir," Pronto panted, bracing himself on his knees, "It's _Lock n' Load_."

"What the hell're you blabbering about? Lock-" Eulogy paused as his mind pieced the report together.

"It's here?"

"Yeah."

"What part?"

"The whole thing! I can't believe it, sir!" Eulogy could see why Pronto was overjoyed. A slow grin even spread across Eulogy's face, knowing full well what good news this was.

"Get a few guys together, take inventory, and report back. I want to know what you've got," Eulogy almost found himself laughing, "I'm waiting on a few more guys for reports, but damnit son, you just made my day!" He slapped Pronto heartily on the back to punctuate the sentence.

"Get to it, boy!" he shooed off the arms dealer, "I'll send down Scarface to clear the trees out a bit for you." Pronto nodded and ran back, grabbing a few surprised slavers as he did. A few seconds later, he was there, staring at his new discovery with pride.

_Lock n' Load_, Pronto's slice of the American Dream. His shop had provided the slavers with the better part of their arsenal. Or, if not that, he made all of their guns keep in working order. The one-story building was easy to miss among the tall trees, and one corner was slightly sunk into the mud, but from the looks of it, the red mist had dragged along a little chunk of Paradise with it. Best of all, it was a part laden with guns and ammo to last quite some time.

Not to mention all of Pronto's holovids in the basement. Suddenly this improptu camping trip became a lot more bearable. And Eulogy Jones had a bit more spring to his step even in light of Dirge's failed expedition.

* * *

Hieronymus Lex, Captain of the Imperial Watch in the heart of the Imperial City itself, couldn't help but feel like he had the most thanklessly difficult job in the Empire. He was constantly overworked, dealing with a constant stream of requests, complaints, and reports, and he even had the Gray Fox to deal with. It didn't help that everyone seemed so sure that he was chasing a ghost, but Lex was sure that the master thief did indeed exist, and he was determined to prove it to everyone.

But he could only keep going for so long. His superiors were breathing down his neck over his presumed 'obsession.' Not only that, but he was drawing flak for sending in men to collect taxes from the Imperial City's poor waterfront district. Sure, the taxes didn't even cover the cost of manpower to actually collect them, but in his mind, it was the principle that mattered.

Lex looked up from the pile of scrolls and texts splayed out on his desk as an armored soldier pushed open his door.

"Sir?" the man asked, "I've word from one of the foresters."

"Good, good, come in," Lex waved him in, "Just put it anywhere." The man hesitated. Lex sighed.

"What is it, soldier?"

"It's marked as 'very urgent,' sir. Should I-"

"By Akatosh, fine. Give it to me," Lex snapped, extending a hand and accepting the document. The soldier stepped from the room as soon as the report was out of his hands. Staying around Lex in one of his moods was a surefire way to get a bad transfer or a demotion.

Lex scanned his eyes over the report, only paying half-attention to the document. Everything these days was marked as urgent. The significance of the word itself was getting increasingly diluted. The situation didn't seem terribly different from the usual reports.

_Outlanders, exotic weapons and armor_, he mused. Perhaps it _was_ a bit different from the norm. Worthy of at least a few extras resources than the usual reports of bandits and marauders were. He'd send the allotted men, plus a battlemage. The warriors were trained by the wizards in the Mage's Guild, the headquarters for which was conveniently located in the Imperial City, not far from the Legion headquarters. If they miraculously encountered something the legionnaires couldn't handle, the battlemage's powerful magics would surely suffice.

If Lex remembered his record correctly, Sheafson had a fairly successfully record when it came to hostile encounters. Most of his reports were just of slain bandits. If he was requesting aide, perhaps the problem was a bit bigger than it seemed.

No matter. Whether or not he'd grossly underestimated the situation would be apparent enough later. Hindsight was always 20-20.

* * *

Briggs and his team were concealed in their small encampment, consisting of the piece of the barracks that had been ripped away and whatever foliage they could pull up to cover it. Fortunately for them, all of the soldiers had their weapons relatively near by, so no one was without a gun, and they had a decent stockpile of ammunition provided they used their guns sparingly. A heartbreak for Carter, Briggs was sure. Most of their other weapons could have their power cells recharged, unlike Carter's minigun.

Briggs himself had set up a small workstation at the table that had formerly held the G.E.C.K., which was nowhere to be found. A handful of Laura's surgical equipment and some weapon maintenance tools were the best that Briggs could scrounge to dismantle what was left of the recovered beartrap. Not a toolkit, and Laura was none to happy about her scalpels being used to scrape rust, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Briggs turned over the twisted beartrap, checking for any mark of where it had been manufactured. No such indicators, unfortunately enough. The best he could hope for was to somehow glean this information from the composition of the metal.

That turned up a dead end, too. It was simple pig iron, probably the most basic form of refined iron known to man. That had been around for centuries, and its use spanned the globe.

"Well?" Ryan peered over Briggs' shoulder, "You find anything out?"

"Wasn't hoping for much," Briggs sighed, "And didn't get much anyway. It's just run-of-the-mill pig iron. Nothing special at all, no factory stamps, nothing."

"Carter and Laura ought to be back in about twenty," Ryan checked his watch, "Anything you need me to do?"

"No, just…take inventory or something," Briggs dismissed him. This would be the fourth time Ryan had run inventory on their supplies. But he decided to leave Briggs be. He clearly had a lot on his mind.

"What about Alex? When's he due back?" Ryan asked as he opened a crate, preparing to run through the contents. Briggs kept his eyes on his work as he replied,

"Long-range scouting. He'll be back by noon tomorrow. If he hasn't called in by then, we'll see if we can't find what's left of him."

* * *

The plan had been simple enough: wait for the lone traveler to wander into the midst of their formation, consisting of five armed men and a mage. Two with shortswords and light shields, two with hand axes, one archer, and a mage: a rare but not unheard of magic user among the bandits was just a further edge to their numerical superiority.

Now, all but two lay dead or dying, and the Altmer mage and Imperial swordsman were in full and frantic retreat. Stumbling over branches and through bushes, the Imperial swung his sword as a machete to clear a path as he ran. The mage spun around, backpedaling, sweeping a hand across the foliage behind him. The greenery ignited with magical flames, creating a small inferno in seconds. Hopefully, it would be enough to stall it for-

_No hope_.

The armored figure stepped through the fire, flames licking at his dull steel hide and flickering in the depths of his black eyes. The fires hadn't even fazed the demon. His weapon was held almost casually in both his hands, having already dispatched the other four before having to recharge the artifact. The remaining two had used the opportunity to run as far and as quickly as they possibly could.

Five deafening booms had spelled the end of the other four's lives. The first had his iron sword blown in half still in his grip before having a fist-sized hole punched through his chest. The archer's arrows had bounced off the outlander's armor, failing to even scratch it. The unfortunate man had lost half his face to the demon's response.

The mage was tiring quickly. The other bandit relied on speed and strength, and could keep up his pace. The mage, though, could not, having devoted countless hours to his mind and neglecting his body. He was steadily slowing, breathing becoming harder and harder.

He clenched his right hand, gathering elemental fire in his palm. He might have been too slow to outpace the unstoppable demon, but he still remembered how groups of animals could escape faster predators.

Simply being faster than the slowest member of the pack.

He lashed out towards his Imperial 'ally,' who had been steadily outpacing him. The bolt of fire struck him just behind his knee, burning through his leather armor in an instant, followed by flesh and bone. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground convulsing as the flesh boiled off his leg.

The Altmer fought through his own pain, listening as the sounds of screams became softer and softer, then ended with a sharp crack. But none of that mattered. The walled city of Chorrol was within his line of sight. Refuge. Refuge from even the demonic outlander.

The armored guards were shouting from the gates, notching arrows and shouting for identification. The mage didn't care. He was so close to survival, to life. They were all dead, but he had survived.

He felt a tug as one of the finely crafted arrows flew from a guard's bow, punching into his right thigh. He fell facedown, snapping the wooden shaft and pulling himself still closer to the gates. A pair of guards jogged toward the crazed man.

_Refuge_.

"When we tell you to stop..." one guard drew his longsword, planting a food firmly on the bandit's back and pushing him to the ground, "…you stop. It's not that hard."

"But let's avoid any further unpleasantries. A priest'll take a look at your leg," the second squatted down to the mage's level, "What's your business in Chorrol?"

The mage opened his mouth to speak, but found words hard to muster. Instead, he only got a stammering choke. After a few seconds, he finally forced something out.

"A…a devil…" The first guard rolled his eyes. Just another crazy.

"You're traveling with a devil? I think it's best if-"

"A devil…came for them. A devil came for them." He repeated, managing to crane his head enough to look back into the woods. There was a rustle of movement, but then nothing. There was smoke in the sky where he had lit his fire, but no other indicator of the slaughter that had taken place.

"Get him to a priest. They'll fix him up," one of the guards finally decided, "Sounds like another one out of a ruin. Those places mess with your head." The other agreed, and lifted the mage up and braced him against his shoulder.

"But I survived," the bandit half-laughed, half-cried, "I survived."

* * *

"_Briggs, you there?_" Briggs looked up from his word and picked up the radio set's receiver.

"Go ahead, Alex. What's the situation?"

"_I made first contact_." Briggs paused a second. That was both good and bad news. It presumably meant that they were still on Earth. But it also meant that the sniper was the first person to make contact with the locals, which almost assuredly didn't end without bloodshed.

"How'd that go over? Species, tech level?"

"_Six total, various swords and axes, one with a bow, and one with some kind of incendiary weapon, all minimal armor._ _Five dead all look human, though one got away. He's entered a walled town. Should I take him out?"_

"Shit…" Briggs muttered. Their entire survival relied on remaining hidden. A witness to one of Nevsky's escapades could prove very problematic. And that was assuming no one had seen Carter and Laura. He had to perform damage control as best he could.

"We need him silenced, Alex. Do you have eyes on him?" A moment of silence followed, presumably as Nevsky checked from his concealed location.

"_No luck, sir. The walls are higher than the buildings, except the chapel. I'd have to get up top to even see in."_

"_Perhaps I may be of service,_" a new voice interrupted, not over the radio, but from seemingly all around Briggs. Ryan heard it, too, and was quick to flick off the safety of his laser rifle. Briggs did the same with his sidearm, scanning the area for the source of the voice.

"Come out! We'll talk when I can see you!" Briggs shouted, his weapon charging with a high-pitched whine.

"No need to shout," the voice laughed with malice-tinted mirth, "I'm close enough to hear every word you've said. And to hear about your little problem." Briggs made several quick hand gestures to Ryan, indicating the heavy goggles beside him. Ryan nodded and picked them up while Briggs kept talking.

"Yeah, we've got a problem, but what makes you think we need your help?"

"_Simple. You are all great warriors, but you're far too few to survive without allies. I propose that those allies by myself and my affiliates._"

Ryan put on the goggles, scanning the area as his vision turned blue, while anything with a heat signature glowed varying shades of orange. Even if reasonably well concealed, the thermal imaging goggles would highlight anyone out of place.

"Suppose I say yes. I'll need a gesture of good faith," Briggs caught Ryan's line of sight. The man was only a few meters away, at the edge of the small encampment, near invisible to the naked eye. To Ryan's astonishment, he wasn't behind any form of cover, yet was hidden as surely as if he'd been using a cloaking field.

"_Again, simple. You don't want your position to be revealed, so I will send one of my operatives to silence your witness. I'll deliver his head as proof._" Briggs extended a staying hand to Ryan. This could actually be a good turn of events.

"Alright, we accept your offer," Briggs slackened his grip on his pistol, "When can we expect results?"

"_Within the hour,_" the voice grinned with invisible teeth,_ "We already have someone in the city._"

* * *

"M'lord, I bring news."

"**Out with it. There is much to be done.**"

"The Dark Brotherhood has made contact with the other Outlanders. It would appear they have struck an alliance."

"**Damn. How were they even able to communicate?**"

"Sithis speaks to all men tainted by darkness."

"**Have their numbers been bolstered?**"

"No, m'lord. They remain inferior to the others, and even worse supplied."

"**Do not underestimate Sithis. His blessing is very real and very powerful.**"

"Shall I make contact with the men, m'lord? The rings have already been forged and enchanted-"

"**No. Let them relax. I've lived centuries. A few more days will be nothing.**"

* * *

"What the blue fuck are those things?" Jericho lay flat on a hilltop, staring through a pair of binoculars at the small town.

"Hell if I know," Forty lowered his own binoculars and unscrewed the cap of his flask, peering into the contents, "If you hadn't seen it, I'd figured my Old Harper's got something else mixed in."

"Like what? Acid?" Jericho snorted, "I don't think much else makes you see cat people." Sure enough, the village seemed to be populated entire by anthropomorphic cats. They had the faces, the fur, and even the tails, yet stood upright and had the stature of an average-sized human. It was creepy even for Jericho, who'd grown used to deformities during his time with Barret, but nothing compared to this.

"You know what this means?"

"It can be Caturday every day of the week?"

"No, dumbass," Jericho sighed, "It means we've got a new place to stay. Food, beds, and a roof over our heads, once we drive out these…things."

"How many houses you count?" Forty looked back through his binoculars. Jericho followed suite and counted in his head.

"Looks like…four, five, six. Six of 'em," Jericho counted and grinned, "More than enough for the lot of us, throw a few tents into the mix."

"So what now?" Forty looked over at the raider. Jericho thought for a moment. Eulogy would be most impressed if they took the settlement themselves…then again, something could easily go wrong, and something that could piss Eulogy off was something Jericho didn't want to have his name attached to.

"We go back, tell Eulogy, and get some guys for the job. Easy."

"Right, let's go."

* * *

Ri'Bassa, the Khajiit shaman of the small establishment known as Border Watch, felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He furrowed his brow as his tail swished back and forth, a general indicator of his churning thought process.

The last time he'd gotten a similar sense of foreboding this distinct was shortly before the fulfillment of the K'sharra Prophecy a year before. Ri'Bassa's great-great-great grandfather had foretold the end of the world, complete with three very distinct signs beforehand. Ri'Bassa and his forefathers had watched warily for these signs, and had seen generations of tranquility.

A young Breton had arrived in the town a year ago, asking questions about the prophecy. Ri'Bassa only remembered this man because most tourists didn't know about the prophecy, but the Khajiit had thought nothing of it at the time. The man was fairly non-descript as it was, and he didn't seem to be disturbing the peace.

A day later, the first of the three signs had been fulfilled. A plague of rats swept over the town, covering the streets and invading their homes. Ri'Bassa felt a creeping fear, but had kept a hefty store of rat poison for this very reason. The rats died off soon enough, but the inevitable was already set in motion.

The day after that, the town's well-guarded sheep began to die, one after the other. Unexplained death of livestock was the second sign of the end of days. By now, the town was thoroughly worried. Ri'Bassa could only watch in terror as the second part came true, and frantically prayed that the third would not.

But then the skies darkened, then grew red and angry as if the clouds were boiling in a supernatural heat. Distant motes of light burned in the sky, and Ri'Bassa sank to his knees in helplessness as dogs fell to earth, engulfed in flames and running about the town, their fall cushioned by some magical means. Large numbers of rats could be explained, as could the deaths of cattle. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for a rain of flaming dogs.

The entire town was in a panic for days. The dogs had set fire to a few houses, and the widespread terror had caused even more paranoia and damage. Eventually, it died down when the citizens of Border Watch realized that the world had not ended, and life eventually regressed to close-to-normal.

The Breton left town as quickly as he had come amidst the chaos. Ri'Bassa had yet to see him again, but he had left an impression on the town. His presence had brought chaos in its wake.

That feeling of uneasiness that Ri'Bassa had felt around the man during the days of his stay had returned. Khajiit instinct was rarely wrong, especially with his family history of predicting the future. A storm was brewing, and it was close.

* * *

Laura and Carter moved through the foliage of the forest with no more difficulty than a normal human would walking through a field. Their armor made each stride break through greenery without any conscious effort on either of their part. Short of walking into a tree, the forest was no match for their augmented strength.

Laura looked over to Carter for a moment, catching something that seemed horribly out of place on the burly heavy weapon's specialist: on the side of his minigun's casing, held down with cellophane tape, was a small, flattened white and yellow flower.

"Carter," she nodded towards it, "What's the deal with the flower? That plastic?"

"Nah, it's the real deal. Impressed?" he grinned behind his helmet.

"Real? How'd you find something like that? You got a green thumb no one knows about?" she raised an eyebrow. If she didn't doubt Carter's ability to think on the fly, she'd have half thought one of the other members of the squad had taped it on without his knowledge to embarrass him at some point.

"It was a gift."

"A gift from…who?" she goaded, the infectious smile spreading across her face. She was genuinely curious.

"My little girl."

Laura froze in place as surely as if her armor had locked up. Carter kept walking. If he noticed that she'd stopped, he seemed too happily immersed in nostalgia to care. Laura was better than most about covering up pasts, but Carter normally had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer taped to an air horn.

"You know something, Carter?" Laura jogged up to Carter, who'd finally paused to let her catch up, "I'm starting to think this 'big and simple' thing you do is just to screw with me."

"Wouldn't think of it, ma'am," Carter replied, "And if I did, would I tell you?" Laura thought for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"_You're_ making _my_ brain hurt for a change," she punched his shoulder, a gesture that would have broken the bone of an unarmored individual, "Keep walking, you big lug. Maybe you'll be back to normal once we figure a way back to the Wasteland."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

**R&R, same deal as usual. If you liked it, tell your friends. If not, tell your enemies. For anyone curious, the bold-faced voice is revealed next chapter, as is the BoS's new 'friend.' **


	4. Alpha Base

**Getting out a few updates now. Chapter four, revised like its predecessors. I'll try to have chapter five in a more timely manner. **

A pair of black-robed men dragged a third form between them. Their robes bore the image of a crimson skull being borne aloft by a pair of similarly colored skeletal arms, branding the two as necromancers.

The third man was wearing armor that had once been a fine example of Orcish backsmithing. Now, it scorched, ruptured, and stained with blood, most of it his own. His armored boots scraped across the stone floor as the two struggled not to show the effort it was taking to pull him along.

Though Bretons shared little physical difference from Imperials, they were known for their superior innate skills in the arcane arts and their natural resistance to magical attacks. Bretons were highly coveted in the ranks of the Imperial Battle Mages, combining both physical strength, endurance, and magical ability.

Gashes and cuts covered the Breton's face, and his right eye had swollen shut. Blood leaked from his mouth as he coughed, spitting out a wad of bile. He was in terrible condition, but he'd left nearly a dozen of the necromancers' comrades in even worse shape. He'd earned his reputation as a champion of the Fighters Guild, clawing his way to the rank second only to the Master herself, Vilena Donton. He was a force to be reckoned with when wielding his beautiful Elven-forged claymore, and his destructive magics made him one of the few of the Fighters Guild to use magic extensively on the battlefield.

Even for all his power, he could not have triumphed over such odds. He'd never been confronted by such force at any single time, and certainly not men of such potent magical ability. Necromancers commanded powerful elemental magics not far short of his own abilities, and they had powers of conjuration that he lacked. Half of them had summoned daedric creatures before he could even get within striking distance, supplementing their ranks further with a variety of hellbeasts.

Now, he was deep in the wolves' den, unarmed, wounded, and an enchanted armlet latched firmly onto his wrist that kept him from tapping into his mana. He was too exhausted to take it off, and he seriously doubted that his escorts would allow him to do that.

He fell facedown as his guards suddenly took away their support. He felt too weak to stand, but managed to muster the strength to push himself up with his unfettered arm.

A pair of leather boots planted themselves in front of him, covered from the middle of the shin up by black robes. The Breton lifted his head high enough to see the man attached to them.

He was an Altmer, more commonly known as the High Elves, with a head of neatly combed dirty-blonde hair that in another universe would be identified as a mullet. His robes were more ornate than those of the two other necromancers, the sleeves hemmed with red calligraphy and the hands holding the skull more elaborate.

"Marcus Antonius…" the Altmer smiled, "So glad to finally meet the rising star of the Fighters Guild." His voice dripped with flattery, too much to be sincere, with malevolent overtones. Marcus coughed out a few flecks of blood.

"I've heard about you," Marcus chuckled through gritted teeth, "The Mages Guild comes to me with the occasional odd job, and it's usually cleaning up your messes." The necromancer laughed, sounding genuinely amused.

"Come now," he laughed, "They're only 'messes' as long as Taven says they are." Hannibal Taven was the current Archmage of the Mages Guild, and a zealous opponent of necromancy. He'd banned its practice by members of the Mages Guild as soon as he had taken office, leading to mass desertions from the Guild's ranks.

"They're problems as long as people keep turning up dead," Marcus spat, "Or the dead keep getting up." The necromancer sighed and looked away.

"I had such high hopes for you. I thought you of all people would see the benefit of what I do," he walked slowly to the stone altar in the middle of the room, "My own existence is proof of the fruits of my labors. Of course, there are issues…" He removed one of the gloves covering his hands. Marcus grunted in disgust at the sight of the practically skeletal hand, only a few chunks of muscle and skin still clinging to the bones.

"I usually focus on maintaining my head, and keeping the smell in check," the necromancer replaced the glove, "People tend to be uneasy around the undead, regardless of origin. I suppose my next step will be a good public relations campaign." The other two mages chuckled. Marcus didn't, possibly because he knew what was to come, and that he had no power to stop it. He had no weapon, no mana, and he could barely keep his head up.

And now, he stood before Mannimarco, the King of Worms, one of the most powerful wizards in Cyrodiil, perhaps even in all of Tamriel. Even in peak condition, and with his claymore, Marcus wasn't sure he'd be able to deal with the wide range of daedra at his disposal. He'd seen what the summoned Xivilai could do to entire battlegroups of legionnaires; eight-foot towers of blue muscle, skin like armor, and weapons and magical skills to match their physical prowess.

Mannimarco clenched one of his gloved hands, crackling with elemental lightning. The two lesser necromancers lifted Marcus to his feet, unlatching his armor and tearing his tunic, revealing his bare chest. Marcus took one last breath as Mannimarco pressed his palm to Marcus' chest, just over his heart.

If it were done, then 'twer well it were done quickly.

The heart is a fragile thing. It's easily the most important organ after the brain itself. Evolution graced mankind with the ribcage to protect it, but there were plenty of threats that surpassed the best that nature had to offer for protection. Thin blades could slip between ribs, and powerful blows could turn the ribs into a bone beartrap, puncturing the soft organs they were intended to safeguard.

Electricity was even worse. It didn't even need to smash or cut past the ribs. It simply passed through. The heart was particularly vulnerable to electricity, taking only 100 milliamps to stop it dead.

Mannimarco could effortlessly hurl bolts of lighting that could cook flesh off bone. It took even less mana to channel that power directly from his body to his target.

Of course, the King of Worms didn't want to burn Marcus alive. That would defeat the purpose of even capturing him. Instead, he used just enough power to stop the Breton's heart with minimal tissue damage.

The next phase was more complicated, but Mannimarco had centuries of experience behind him. The ritual was quick and relatively clean, and in the end, Mannimarco's limp Altmer form was lain out on the altar, the robes placed on the floor beside it.

Marcus cracked his neck and flexed shoulders, experimenting with his limbs. He lifted up his cuirass, replacing it and the tunic with several snaps of latches. The Breton then reached down to the robe, sliding it over his head and over the armor. Its fabric expanded slightly to accommodate the armor beneath, then settled.

Finally, he flipped up the black hood, shrouding his eyes in shadows, and extended a hand to one of the two attending necromancers. The man knelt and extended the hilt of Marcus' claymore to him. Marcus accepted it, twirling the weapon once to feel its weight, smiling at how naturally its movements came to him, then slung it across his back.

The light of life had vanished from Marcus' eyes, replaced by the glassy haze found more often on corpses. Within the champion's body, the soul of the King of Worms had taken residence, claiming Marcus' body as his own.

Mannimarco was a lich, and a powerful one, at that. He could transfer his consciousness from body to body, but only to the deceased. He did it ever so often when either a more powerful specimen presented itself to be assimilated into his own might, or when he neglected to keep his body's decay in check.

The Breton champion would prove an excellent vessel for decades, if not centuries to come. His physical strength was a boon that Mannimarco had lacked, and one that he was eager to test.

"I feel like a trip to the Arena," Mannimarco mused, letting a ghost of a smile drift across his stolen lips, "We'll visit the outlanders once I return." With that, he strode past the two necromancers, leaving them behind with the rotting body that once held the soul of Mannimarco, and the black soul gem that held the tortured spirit of Fighters Guild Champion Marcus Antonius.

Ri'Bassa pushed open his door into the night air, having noticed a few others doing the same. Someone had lit a torch near the town entrance, presumably to welcome travelers.

Tsalajma, a young female, and among the more accepting of newcomers after the Prophecy fulfillment, was bearing the torch in question, casting its light on the dark armor of the newcomers. Ri'Bassa would have guessed them Legionaries from the color of their armor.

Tsalajma was approaching them with a warm greeting, and only then did Ri'Bassa see that they were not Imperial soldiers. And it was that moment when true Armageddon came to Border Watch.

Five men walked into town that night, into a tiny settlement with some five times their numbers in population. The center man raised a glowing gauntlet towards Tsalajma, letting loose a rolling ball of green fire. The young Khajiit could only watch in shock as the blast consumed her, reducing her upper torso to ash.

Another resident screamed at the sight, and Ri'Bassa reacted as he had always planned in the event of bandit attack. He sprinted towards the Border Watch Inn as another ball of fire launched itself at a resident, and the night became alive as Khajiit stumbled from their houses at the ruckus and to their deaths.

Ri'Bassa threw open the inn's front door, tripping over the doorstep and almost falling as the remaining men in the group attacked. S'thasa, owner and proprietor of the inn, had just begun to circle around the bar where she had been standing. A visiting legionnaire, too, was cursing and donning his armor, aroused from his sleep by the commotion.

By now, screams and the sound of the attacker's magics had seeped through the windows. There were only four people in the inn besides Ri'Bassa, S'thasa, and the legionnaire, and among them only one of the four and the legionnaire were non-Kajiit: an Imperial civilian and the soldier, a Nord called Arcturas.

"How many of what?" the Nord infantryman asked, sliding his steel helmet over his head, directing the question at the shaking Ri'Bassa.

"Uh, four, no five," he managed to stammer, "They're well armored, and they can use magic."

"Alright, listen carefully," Arcturas said, buckling his belt and unsheathing his sword, "I want you all to run from here as quickly and quietly as you can. Is there a back door?" This time, he addressed S'thasa.

"Yes," she nodded, "It's a bit sticky, but it works."

"Good," he nodded back, "Get out through there and get to Leyawin as fast as possible. The Count will either send troops himself, or contact the Legion. Now go!" The five moved through the inn to the back door, whispering final words of thanks as they did. The soldier tried not to listen. It implied that he was going to make the ultimate sacrifice for them, and that was never a pleasant thought.

"May the Nine protect me," he muttered, reaching slowly for the circular grip of the door handle. Arcturas was abruptly thrown back as the door exploded into flames, the detonation hurling nearly three hundred pounds of steel and muscle like a toy.

A figure out of Oblivion itself stepped through the shattered remains of the door as the flames spread along the predominantly wooden and floors of the inn. Seven feet tall, decked from head to toe in soot-darkened armor, and carrying a massive, two-handed weapon at his waist. He cast his baleful gaze onto the fallen legionnaire, but turned his head as a shout in a foreign tongue attracted his attention.

The armored giant turned and left without a second thought to Arcturas. From the slightly tinny sound of the voice, it seemed to be berating the man for something. The Nord couldn't possibly fathom what.

"Damnit, corporal, what did I _just_ say before we got here?" Sergeant Kastner barked at Corporal Adam Deleon over din of violence and the crackle of fire that was slowly engulfing the inn. Deleon paused a moment, shifting his weight as he thought. Kastner sighed. The soldier's skill with the difficult-to-use gatling laser was invaluable, but he could be as thick as a post sometimes.

"Orders were, corporal…" Kastner said through gritted teeth, "…_not_ to destroy the infrastructure, and capture at least one 'normal' local."

"Understood, sir."

"And what, exactly, have you just done?" Deleon cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Destroyed the infrastructure, sir," he admitted far more sheepishly than a man of his size probably should have.

"Don't do it again," Kastner growled, "Was there anyone inside?"

"I saw one, sir."

"A mutant like the others?"

"No, sir, looked like a normal guy." Kastner sighed again. This was getting old fast.

"And what was the second order you were given?" This time, Deleon caught on and snapped a quick salute.

"On it, sir. I'll collar 'im." With that, the soldier turned on his heel and re-entered the burning inn. Kastner let out one last sigh, casually firing a blast of green plasma into the back of a fleeing villager. He hoped that the corporal could complete the simple task without breaking the man's neck.

Deleon flicked on the gatling laser's safety switch and turned off the power supply. He had range safety practically burned into his head, and knew how to make his weapon as safe as he could when he didn't want it firing.

Instead, he held in his left hand a thick metal collar, filled with a variety of electronics and serving a single purpose: controlling its wearer. It wasn't mind control to any degree, but it was a step up from the usual Paradise Falls slave collar.

Rather than simply holding a bit of C4 and a detonator in the event of a runner, it also included the same mechanism as a stungun. Thus, it could be used to deliver painful electric shocks of varying intensity by remote. Great for interrogation, especially since it meant you didn't even need to lay a finger on the subject.

Deleon kept his right hand free, knowing that he would need it to restrain or incapacitate the man. However, as he swept the interior of the inn, he couldn't find the man anywhere.

A metal clang and a push to the back of his head told Deleon that the man had used one of the most deviously deceptive stealth maneuvers of all time: hiding next to the doorway and hitting your foe over the head.

In this case, the stubborn soldier had decided to use his longsword. The plan would have worked, had Deleon not been wearing the finest powered armor the Enclave had to offer. Not even the 'horns' of the helm were damaged by the attack.

Deleon swung his arm in a backfist, striking the surprised soldier's helmet. The helm was dashed from his head and skittered across the floor, a large dent smashed into one side. It could have just as easily been the man's head. Deleon vowed to be more careful, lest he further anger his sergeant.

Arcturas grunted in pain as the giant's kneecap smashed into his stomach, warping his cuirass. The man's free hand shot out with speed uncustomary of someone of his size and strength, grabbing the Legionnaire's throat and forcing him against the wall.

Arcturas struggled for a breath that he could not take as the grip tightened. The enclosed helmet pushed itself close to his bare face, saying something in his rough tongue. Arcturas would have spat something back had the giant not drawn back his head and delivered a sharp and exceedingly painful headbutt. This, combined with the oxygen deprivation, was more than enough to put the otherwise hardy Nord out like a light.

Deleon snapped the collar into place around the unconscious man's neck. He then slung him over his shoulder and walked out the door amidst the flames, casually picking up his gatling laser as he did so.

Kasnter fired off a plasma bolt at the last kneeling target of a line of corpses. The execution done, he looked up to Deleon, impressed that the target was at least in one piece. Sure, he was bleeding fairly heavily from his forehead, but it was a better outcome than the sergeant had expected.

"Got 'im, sarge," Deleon announced the obvious, "Alive but incapic...incapcit...out cold." Kastner smiled behind his helmet.

"Good work, Corporal. Just set him down somewhere and give him a shot of morphine." Kastner turned to one of the other men.

"Get on the comm and call back to Jones. Tell him Alpha base is secure and largely intact."

**R&R, the usual deal. Anon accepted, as well. **


End file.
